


Shame

by ftlow



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e05 Human Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-09-05 05:42:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16804735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftlow/pseuds/ftlow
Summary: The aftermath of that slap in S02E05 'Human Trials'. Oneshot. An experiment with tense, repetition and point of view. Feedback very much appreciated.(You could consider this a prelim to a docmechanic relationship if you wanted - I do!)





	Shame

Your pulse is pounding in your fingertips and your palm is tingling. Shame courses through you.

 _She’s not your daughter_ , a voice in your head reminds you, and you want to growl at it, _I know, god, I know_ , but she’s slowly turning her face back, dark eyes meeting yours, and you sink into the seat opposite her instead and bury your face in your hands, barely holding back a sob.

You wait for the inevitable, famous Raven anger, but it doesn’t come. Nor does a snarky comment.

Instead, she pushes over her moonshine, and you want to scream, because just as she isn’t your daughter, you are not her mother. You don’t need a drink.

_The difference is you’d never raise a hand against Clarke, any more than you usually would against Raven, but her mother…_

You decide not to finish that thought, sighing audibly instead, trying to find the words to, somehow, explain the unexplainable. An apology seems redundant, insulting, and so you don’t give one.

“She thinks that because of what she’s been through, she’s changed, but she’s still just a kid,” you tell her desperately, trying to prove that you’re nothing like her mother, you’re caring, you’re maternal, you’re protecting your girl.

It doesn’t matter that Clarke arrived so muddy and beaten she’d barely been recognisable, or that the stubborn streak she’d always had was now steely determination and capable leadership, a tendency to take more responsibility than she needed to. It doesn’t matter that she’d clung to you for barely a moment before building up those walls around all the hurt, pushing you away like just another Arkadian.

 _Of course it does._ And it all flashes through your eyes, and Raven sees it all.

“You’re wrong, Abby,” she tells you quietly, gaze burning across the table. “She stopped being a kid the day you sent her down here to die.”

And you don’t have anything to say to that, not even a weak protest that you sent her down here to live, because you’re suddenly not sure any more whether they’re talking about Clarke or Raven, and either way, it was you, it was a long shot, it was so incredibly low a chance that they’d make it this far –

And before you can process her words enough to form the apology that you know she needs, now - it wouldn’t be redundant - she’s gone, and your pulse is pounding in your fingertips and your palm is tingling. Shame courses through you.

* * *

It takes the rest of her cup of moonshine and two more of your own before you’re ready to face her again, and you aren’t sure if that makes you smart or cowardly, but she’s the last person you’d want as your enemy.

She’s not in any of the places you think to look first, and somehow you’re surprised that you’re actually short of places to look, because you feel like you should know her better than that and you’re illogically, unreasonably angry with yourself for not knowing.

It takes steadying breaths to calm your racing mind enough to decide she’d probably – if she was angry, or upset, and although you aren’t arrogant enough to assume she was, it was possible – want something to do with her hands, something to fix, to distract her from the events of the evening.

Your hand stings again and you swallow audibly, directing your feet towards the workshop she’d adopted.

It’s empty, and suddenly, you know where she’ll be, and you hurry on.

The large room you step quietly into is lit with the Ark’s usual bluish light, and for the first time you find it harsh and eerie, unnatural. For the first time you recognise how at home you are on earth.

It’s quiet, but not silent. Odd curse words, muttered somewhere out of sight, echo and creep around the walls, and metallic clangs and clicks chase them.

You let your feet carry you through them, following them to their source, like walking upstream, well-worn shoes silent on the metal, until you’re looking at a pair of feet sticking out from underneath a land rover, one braced on the ground, the other limp and turning outwards listlessly.

“Oh, float yourself, you fucking awkward knob,” Raven’s voice issues from somewhere within the bowels of the vehicle.

You chuckle, only slightly surprised at the profanity you’ve never heard her use before but have somehow always known she did, and watch her lower leg – the one that had been straining, holding her in the right position – freeze.

“Language, Reyes,” you chide gently, and you know she’s recognised your voice but her leg doesn’t relax. She’s tense as she begins to roll out.

“What? It actually is a knob,” she tells you, the hint of a smile playing around the corner of her mouth as she thrusts it towards you, and you smile back, knowing that she’s well aware that wasn’t at all what you meant.

Then she turns to place it carefully on the tray currently sat on the car’s bonnet, her free hand reaching for the torch on her head, and a faint red handprint is visible on her cheek in the blue half-light. Your breath catches in your throat and your pulse is pounding in your fingertips and your palm is tingling. Shame courses through you. The smile slides off like the mud did from Clarke’s face just days ago, lumpy and ugly, and you take a step back like you’re the one who got slapped.

She turns back to you, she’s seen you move, and now she’s fiddling nervously with the strap of the headtorch. “It doesn’t hurt,” she offers, avoiding your eyes, and you know she’s not lying, it shouldn’t still be stinging by now, but she’s ashamed, and you don’t quite know why or how to fix it when the shame is - and should be - yours.

You reach for her, gritting your teeth when she flinches and steps back, and your hands drop back to your sides.

“Sorry, I- oh, god,” she murmurs, and then she’s there, head torch bouncing off the metal floor, her strong, lean arms wrapping around your shoulders, and you bury your nose in her hair, feeling the tears pooling in your eyes and running down your cheeks because you don’t deserve her forgiveness, you don’t need her apologies, and Clarke – _Clarke_ hasn’t hugged you like this since you were both still in space.

You choke on a sob and your breath catches in your throat and your pulse is pounding in your fingertips and your palm is tingling.

“Raven, I’m so sorry,” you breathe, and she’s hushing you before you’ve even started, and you tentatively wind your arms around her waist and sigh.

“I know,” she whispers. “You were sorry as soon as you did it. I wanted to tease you about hitting like a girl, but actually,” Raven winces, “I’d be pretty proud of a slap like that. Hope it hurt your hand.”

You try to laugh but it comes out as a sob and you dig your nails into the sensitive palm of your right hand. You shake your head, murmuring, “not enough, not enough,” and she’s shushing you again and you don’t know how to get all of the things you need to say out.

She pulls back, her hands on your upper arms, and her dark brown eyes meet your light ones, and there’s a current between you that reminds you of so many silent conversations – when you caught her in the air duct and she gave you the solution to your problem, and when you told her to go without you to earth, and when you found her in the drop ship with a bullet in her spine, and –

 _And today, when I slapped her_ , you think, and your throat closes up and you squeeze your eyes shut, wondering if you’ll ever be able to look at her like that again, if you’d ever be able to swallow the nausea that rises when you remember that sickening crack, or her screams as you carved into her back with a scalpel and no anaesthesia…

“Abby.” You feel a warm hand on your cheek, smaller than yours, but rougher, with blisters and callouses and scrapes and oil disrupting the whorls and ridges of prints. Your hands are bigger, just as patient, just as capable, but sterile, usually, soft, clean, gloved.

Your pulse is pounding in your fingertips and your palm is tingling. Shame courses through you.

You shake your head, eyes squeezed closed still, and she sighs audibly.

"Look, it’s nothing I’m not used to, and I know you don’t make a habit of it, so can we just…” she trails off and you open your eyes to look at her, and she’s looking off to the side just like she was before she realised that you were marching to your death so she could drop to earth, and you wonder again just who she was talking about earlier. _Herself or Clarke._

“You shouldn’t have to be used to it,” you croak, and her gaze snaps back to yours.

“That isn’t your fault,” she returns just as quickly, just as hoarsely, and you fight tears as you consider her childhood, for there wasn’t much information in her file that you read back on the Ark.

You shrug. “No,” you agree, “but tonight was, and sending you down here was, and –“ your throat is closing, panic rising as your gaze drops down to her slightly unbalanced stance and the metal contraption she’s come up with, and your vision blurs. “And that is, and –“

Raven puts her hand over your mouth and you’re so surprised you glare at her, stunned into silence. She smiles softly at you and bites her lip, shaking her head.

“No,” she tells you, surprisingly strongly. “I…shouldn’t have said that, earlier. I know you didn’t send Clarke down here to die, you sent her down here to give her a chance to live. And you did the same for me, Abby. The things that have happened since…well, some of them suck, but they’re not your fault.”

She lets go of you and you sag, and selfishly it feels like a weight has lifted from your chest and shoulders and you can breathe again.

You might not believe her, but she believes herself, and that… that might be as good as it gets.

You drag your gaze up from your shoes to her bronze skin, and gently reach up to trace the reddened area with a gentle fingertip.

Doctor’s hands, weapons just hours before. Your pulse is pounding in your fingertips and your palm is tingling. Shame courses through you.

“Raven, I’m… I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t fix your nerve damage, I’m so sorry for the pain of the surgery. And for… for tonight. For being angry with you. For…” you scowl. “Everything. I never should have put you in that position on the Ark, I never should have…” you swallow, and place a finger over her lips when she opens her mouth to interrupt. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions. I know where I’m going,” you tell her, trying to lighten the mood at least a little, but she only frowns. “I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like for you down here, and how hard it must be to have us muscling in now. Especially since a lot of you don’t have anything to thank us for anyway.”

You pull your hand back, holding it protectively against your chest, although you think it might be for her protection rather than yours.

She smiles at you and you’re struck, suddenly, by her height, because somehow you’ve always thought of her as a child and she’s _not_ , just like Clarke is _not_ , and the realisation steals your breath and you stumble, catching yourself on a desk and leaning back heavily on it.

Raven follows, leaning beside you, hips and elbows and shoulders knocking against yours. The brace digs into your leg but you don’t mention it.

“If you hadn’t come to me on the Ark, we’d both be dead and the hundred would be exactly where they are now,” she replies. “I’m glad you did, and not just because of that, but… because now I have someone, Abby. I have Finn again, and I have _you_.”

You think she’s going to stop there but she doesn’t, she reaches up and tucks some hair behind your ear, because you’ve not even considered how ragged and unkempt you look since Clarke, muddy and battered, arrived at the gate. It feels intimate, caring.

“Abby, I don’t know much about nerves and stuff, but I know enough to be sure that there was nothing you could do. And I don’t want you to carry this injury around as your own. It’s not your fault. And no matter how angry I sometimes get about it, I need you to remember that, because you’re the only person who doesn’t consider me breakable now, who doesn’t look at me any differently, and if you do…”

She trails off, and you remember Finn’s anger as he demanded you _try again_ with the blasted needle. You turn to look at the beautiful young woman beside you and smile tremulously.

“You’re one of the strongest people I know, Raven,” you tell her. And her other cheek flushes to match the one you slapped.

“Because I had to be. Because we all act with good intentions.” Raven swallows, and you wonder what she’s hiding. “And I… was probably the only one on the ground with no real reason to dislike any of you up there.” She gestures broadly to the ceiling and shrugs. “Kane, maybe. And Nygel. That’s it.”

You smile tentatively. “You also weren’t in the Skybox,” you point out, and she chuckles.

“Only because I didn’t get caught,” she sasses, and you shake your head, somehow sure she’s not joking, and pretend to cover your ears.

“What, no punishment?” she jokes, and you freeze, and your pulse is pounding in your fingertips and your palm is tingling. Shame courses through you. She rolls her eyes. “C’mon, Abs, lighten up. Please. I don’t blame you for any of this, okay? And I don’t believe you’re planning to make this a habit,” her hand strays to her face, “so take a joke, and the gossip train will soon run out of steam.”

You remember the silence that fell in the immediate aftermath of the stinging slap and bury your face in your hands. She tugs at your wrists and meets your eyes, and your silent conversation is a simple exchange of emotion, a search for truth and honesty, a raw experience you’ve never achieved with anyone else but Jake.

“You… you’re…” you don’t know what you were planning to say, but her eyes crinkle into a smile anyway.

“I’m amazing. I know.” She smirks up at you. “Come on, pass me that wrench when I’m back under, will ya?”

“Whatever you say,” you agree, and she squeezes your hands that she’s somehow gripped, and your pulse is pounding in your fingertips and your palms are tingling as she throws herself down and drags her bad leg behind her to settle elbow-deep in the rover’s intestines.

“Just like surgery,” she jokes, and a hand appears behind the front driver’s side tyre. You gently place the wrench into it and chuckle.

Minutes pass in silence.

“Thank you,” you tell her eventually. You’re not completely sure what for, but she doesn’t ask, only smiles softly, and the one side of her face that isn’t shadowed by the rover’s bumper is full of joy.

“Thank you, Abs. For being nothing like Finn, and nothing like my mother, and nothing like anyone else I’ve ever known.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Your pulse is pounding in your fingertips and your stomach is tingling. Your cheeks ache with a wide smile.


End file.
